


Seven Days

by BRlANSMAY



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Based on a song, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, cute date night vibes, idk tags are hard tf is this, seriously four of these chapters are gonna be just smut, tags as i post i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-27 04:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17759867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BRlANSMAY/pseuds/BRlANSMAY
Summary: You find yourself working at an old record shop day in and day out. As a creature of habit, you start your Monday as you do any other, but this Monday won't be like any you've had before, nor will it be like any you'll have in the future. Queen's Roger Taylor and Brian May find themselves in your record shop, and you find yourself in for one hell of a week with the guitarist.ORi was listening to a song at work one day, got caught up in the lyrics and thought how could i put this into an interesting fic?





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> this is, technically, my second fic on here (only the real remember BFB before i deleted it) but, thanks for reading! for context with the song & to figure out where the inspo for this came from, please listen to "7 Days" by craig david! this will be a seven part thing and i'll try and post once per day until it's all posted but... no promised.

“ _I met this girl on Monday”_

**_***_ **

Your day starts as any other; the only living soul in the tired old record shop. The smell of plastic, warped wood and jasmine ( the bosses favorite scent ) seemed permanently ingrained into every part of your body; your clothes, your hair, even your skin. How long and _often_ you needed to shower to get the smell off of you. Money was money, though, and the job was easy enough for how well it payed. You begin your daily ritual, murmuring a quiet _good morning_ to the records as you move to secure your purse and other items in the safe beneath the register. You start the kettle on the hot plate in the employee break room, looking for your sacred orange blossom tea; this was the only way you could get through the morning that didn’t require alcohol. As the water begins to warm and boil, you drag yourself over to the store’s record player, leafing through the pile vinyls beside it. You’ve been in a bit of a Motown mood lately; Diana Ross and the Supremes seems your speed and as usual, you dance like no one is watching - because no one _is_ watching. You make it through half the song before you go and retrieve the water for your coffee, leaving it to steep as you unlock the front door. It’s 9 AM, and you’re open for business.

 

The morning is exactly like any other; you spend more time going back and forth from your spot at the front desk to the record player to swap out records as your taste changes. The usual drifters come in; older ladies looking for swing or classical, maybe dance. A few kids that skip school to touch the records; you hate them, but they don’t break anything and they’re usually quiet, so you let them browse to their hearts content, which is all of twenty minutes, as usual. You’re thoughtfully flipping through a magazine; one hand tugging a curl at the base of your neck, the other holding a Milky Way - the typical almost mid day snack. Surprisingly enough, the store slowly begins to fill with teenage girls. You find it odd for a Monday, at 11:34, that all of these girls are bustling about, quietly squealing with each other about something you’re too lazy to really make out. You only vaguely pay attention when four men quietly enter the store, causing a thick tension to settle in the air. Two of the men are dressed in black with stern looks on their face, like they were about to go to a funeral or had just come from one. You lean forward on your stool to try and get a better look. The third man that enters steps around the minute men, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips as he takes a thoughtful look around the store. His wide blue eyes are partially cloked behind rose gold sunglasses; a bold choice, you think inwardly. Those same eyes meet hours, however, and your breath catches in your throat when you realize who he is.

 

 _No fucking way. Not in your store_.

 

Trying to keep your professional modesty, you give a simple hello as your flip your magazine closed, fixing your hair without even realizing you’re doing so. It’s only when you see _him_ to you understand each squealing girl in the store. He’s taller than you imagined; you knew he was, but seeing him in person is completely different. His dark hair frames his face effortlessly, curls bouncing as he laughs at a joke told to him. There’s absolutely _no god damn_ way _two_ members of Queen were in your store on one of the only days you open and run the store on your own. This _wouldn’t_ be happening; it couldn’t be.

 

You’re trying not to stare, but you find yourself gawking anyways; they move quietly through the store together, making conversation with each other and, very occasionally, looking at you. The half chewed candy in your mouth sticks your tongue to the roof of your mouth, causing you to awkwardly duck your head and try to free your tongue.  Fingers tapping the desk cause you to peer up slowly, and there he was. Brian May is _extremely_ handsome; your mind sounds like a broken record as you find yourself lost in the depths of his hazel eyes. His cologne is fragrant, sweet and you wish you could tuck your nose against his skin and just breathe him in. Once you finally remember how to behave like a functioning human, you notice the record placed on the counter in front of you; _Sheer Heart Attack_ stares at you in it’s big, bold font. You have your own copy at home, alongside their self titled album, _Queen,_ as well as _Queen II._ Regardless, you turn the record over and punch the price into the register’s keys.

 

“Isn’t it a bit vein to buy something with your own face on it?”

 

Your joke earns a hearty laugh from the drummer, nose crinkling as he elbows the taller man in the side. You’re completely enchanted buy the laugh that ripples through the guitarist, noting the subtle way blush invades his cheeks and nose. Was it possible to be in love with someone you’ve just met? Or is his superstardom appeal.

 

“It’s for my mum,” he finally explains, shoulder rising in a simple shrug. “She hasn’t heard it yet. Rog and I are going over to surprise her.” Color you enamored. Money is exchanged, the transaction ends and just like that, it’s as if he was never there at all. Star struck, you lean forward on the desk and close your eyes, trying to inhale the last few remnants of his cologne slowly fading into the familiar scent of jasmine. You’re only drawn from your thought by hushed whispering near the front door. You’re surprised, and extremely pleased, to see both Roger and Brian have returned, but they seem to be having a bit of an argument. Between harsh whispers, you swear you could hear your own name. That’s silly; there’s no way either of them could be arguing over _you_ right? Ever the slouth, you slide from the stool and pretend to go organize a stack of vinyls so you can hear. The guitarist’s presence beside you startles you; you almost snap a vinyl in half when he clears his throat.

 

“I know this is probably a bit forward, and you can totally say no if you want”

 

“Yes. Absolutely.” Your eagerness is embarrassing at best and you slowly feel yourself sinking into your own skin, but the gentle brush of a shoulder against your own almost sends you reeling.

 

“I’m glad I only want to take you out instead of committing crime; you answered a bit quickly.” You did and you still wanted to crawl in a hole and die for it. “I’m thinking tomorrow night, seven? My treat.” He hands you a small, black book; a silent invitation for you to share your contact information with him. When the book is returned to him, hazel eyes scan the cream colored pages; he says your name a few times, rolling the letters around in mouth before wishing you a good day and leaving with Roger, who looked vaguely smug as Brian pulls him out of the store. You stand there for a long while, arms folded over your stomach as the realization slowly begins to sink in, sending an unfamiliar warm through your body.

You just signed yourself up for a date with Brian May.


	2. Tuesday

_ “Took her for a drink on Tuesday.” _

_ *** _

You feel like you haven’t slept in days. You try to keep the news of your date a secret, despite constant prying prodding from friends. As you clock out for the day, your mind is a million places at once. What were you gonna wear? What was an acceptable time to start getting ready? How much, or how little makeup is appropriate? God, what were you gonna do with your hair? Your thoughts continue to swirl in a jumbled mess, only growing in size when you get home and realize how  _ limited  _ your wardrobe truly is. You didn’t have  _ time  _ for dates (or so you tell yourself) and clearly, it shows. Time ticks on, ever the enemy, as you dump the entire contents of your closet about your room, picking through dresses and skirts in distress. Did you go for something more modest? Maybe something a little sheer? How do you get his interest without seeming like you’re trying too hard? You decide on your favorite cream colored halter dress; there was no harm in showing off a  _ little  _ skin, right? Your ankle boots match in color and provide a small heel, nothing too dramatic. Your makeup from work is still fine, so you leave it - he hasn’t seen you today anyways and you don’t think he’ll be looking too intently at your eyeshadow and brows. Passing a curling iron through your hair quickly and, likely, too much hairspray, you stand in front of the mirror in your bedroom, turning and twisting your body from every angle imaginable.  _ Why you?  _ Yesterday still felt like a dream when you thought about it and you could hardly believe that tonight was going to happen. Anxiety wracks your brain; maybe he won’t show up, maybe how uninteresting you are will finally be clear to him and you’ll scare him off. You’re desperate to make a good first impression -- second? Was yesterday your first impression? God, you must seem desperate then. As the afternoon sun begins to melt into a sultry dusk, you find yourself in a cab en route to your date.  _ Date.  _ Your fingers nervously knit into the material of your dress in attempt to distract yourself from their shaking; you hated being this nervous over something so  _ small _ . (It wasn’t small, but telling yourself helped your nervous.)

 

Twenty minutes and one anxiety attack later, you find yourself in the lobby of the restaurant, the quiet sounds of jazz relaxing your tense muscles. Your eyes scan the heads in the vicinity, looking for those familiar curls amongst the endless sea of bodies, until the realization that it’s unlikely for someone as famous as Brian to just be sitting around in the open like that. You have half a mind to leave until a hand on your shoulder and the soft murmur of your name causes you to turn. A woman, name tag indicating her name is Alyssa, gives you a warm smile and insists you follow you to your table.

 

_ Well shit _ .

 

Anxiety beings to settle in as you follow Alyssa toward the back of the restaurant, but you distract yourself in how the ambience seems to change the further you get from the main floor. Alyssa stops just short of your table, wishing you a lovely meal before quietly making her way back toward the front, leaving you with him. Your limbs feel a thousand pounds as you take a tentative step toward him, swallowing around the lump in your throat before trying to clear it away and get his attention. Delight his clear on his features as he rises to greet you, arms extend for you to step into them. You step into his embrace, relishing in his warmth and slowly melting at the way his thumb grazes the back of your shoulder.

 

“You look absolutely splendid. Thanks for meeting me.”

 

As if you’d say no to him. You sit opposite him in the booth, hands tucked under your thighs as you shrug the shawl off of your shoulders. You take a brief moment to study the art on the walls around you, admiring how tasteful it is before you realize Brian’s eyes on you. He’s analyzing, respectfully, but you can see it for what it is. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking and you wish he’d say  _ something _ so you didn’t feel like you were drowning beneath his gaze.

 

“I didn’t think you were serious,” you finally state clumsily, mouth drying as curiosity crosses his features. Off to a roaring start, you sigh inwardly as you pinch the bridge of your nose as you try to think of a way to save yourself. “-- I  _ did _ , I mean. I-- uhm. You’re busy and …  _ extremely  _ famous. I know it was your idea but, er, the..  _ Anxious  _ part of my brain wondered why a man like you would even be interested in a record shop worker.” His silence doesn’t do wonders for your nerves, but the smile he gives you is genuine and for a second, a blip of a second, your heart stops racing.

 

“One is never to busy for what, or who they want. Making time wasn’t exactly an issue for me.” His answer is so matter of fact, so  _ simple _ , that you find yourself sinking in your seat, face blazing with color. The idea of him clearing his entire schedule just to be there with you in the moment -- is it too soon to say you’re in love? Alyssa returns, a bottle of what  _ appears  _ to be extremely expensive wine (you don’t know wine besides the twelve dollar bottle you buy from the corner store after a particularly stressful day) and carefully half fills the two glasses in front of her before sliding one toward you and the other to Brian. You hardly have an appetite anymore with how on edge you are, but when she asks what you’d like to eat, you quickly scan the menu for the least expensive salad you can find. You try to ignore the slight frown on Brian’s lips at your menu choice by quickly emptying your glass of wine. 

 

“So, not to sound boring, but tell me about yourself.” Your eyebrows lift as Brian leans forward on his elbows, hand knitted together so his chin could rest atop of them. This man, who has seen more people and cities than you ever will, who’s played for audiences of thousands of people, was  _ honestly  _ asking about you - boring old you. Your shoulders shrug, fingers going to twirl a small near the nape of your neck, a nervous habit of yours, as you ramble on about yourself. You talk to him about college and how tired of you are of paying it off and how you hate that you took all these classes for things you haven’t used since graduation. You talk about your family, your home life, parents, pets, places you want to go. Despite how boring you sound in your head, his interest in everything you have to say has your heart swelling in your chest. Brian May, nothing short of a rock legend so early in your career, was sat across from you, listening to how fourteen year old you almost ran away when your mother surrendered your tabby cat, Susanna. Never in a million years did you expect something like this to happen to you; your fingers pinch the underside of your arm to make sure that you were actually experiencing this. The food comes and you half eat your salad, trying to be modest as possible. It was refreshing, being on a date with a man who was actually interested in you as a person, and not just what you could do for him;  _ if  _ purely sex was Brian’s attention, he was doing a hell of a job of not showing it.

 

The meal ends and you’re dreading your time with Brian coming to an end. You wanted to spend the entire night with him but you certainly didn’t want to come across as clingy, or desperate for him attention. ( You were, but he didn’t need to know that. ) After taking of the tab, he rises and stretches himself out and you shamelessly take in in the view provided to you. His shirt, a powdery blue, strained against the pull of his limbs, rising just enough to expose the stripe of skin below his navel. A moan, or what you  _ assume  _ is one, rumbles in his chest as he finishes the stretch, right hand held out toward yours; a silent invitation to take it. You hastily wrap your shawl around your shoulders, sliding your free hand into his. His hand is massive around yours, warm and inviting; you desperately wish to sink into him. Eyes and whispers trail you both as you leave through the front, and he quietly ushers you into a vehicle waiting outside.

 

“Let’s get you home, then.”

 

Your hand doesn’t leave him as the car lurches forward; you cuddle into his side and bask in the way his arm curls around your body, fingers idly playing with the curls that dance near your shoulders. Adoration twinkles in your eyes as you study his profile, the way his features highlight and contour themselves with each passing streetlight, the intent way his hazel eyes study each passing building, that is until they’re on yours again. None it feels real despite that fact that you’re  _ very  _ much pressed against his side and he’s leaning into you as well and that his fingers have dropped from your shoulder to the sensitive part of your ribcage, almost making you laugh. He’s so close and  you want, so badly, to kiss him.

 

“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me,” you’re rambling and you swear his mouth gets closer when you start. “— I promise I’m not some crazed … Groupie who just wants—”

 

“It’s not a crime if I want you too.”

 

_ God,  _ he knew just to say, didn’t he? The hand on your side now cradles your face, tilting your head backward ever so slightly; you feel like your body is about to take flight. His lips barely hover yours, touch light as a feather before you greedily capture his lips with your own. Kissing Brain was an experience all himself; dominate, but gentle. He was in no rush and you were desperate for more of him. Arms wrap around his slender frame, fingers delicately tracing each of his ribs; the soft sigh exhales into your mouth is all the reward you could ever desire. Your body is blissfully tangled with his— arms and lips deliciously mingled; you hardly realize where you two separate until lips leave your own.

 

“I think this is you. Let me walk you to your door.”

 

Should you invite him in? Would it seem easy if you to bed him the first night? Did he even want that? Kissing someone was hardly the same as sleeping with them. You mull it over as you make the short walk from the street to your front door; you don’t want to let him go, you wish desperately for this night to become endless. 

 

“Brian, I—”

 

“I want to see you again tomorrow. If … You’ll have me. I have some work to do with the boys, but after eight I’m free.”

 

Is he seriously asking if you wanted to see him again. Your fingers lock around the lapels of his jacket, sealing your answer with a kiss rather than words. The gentle touch of hands on your hips, pulling you inward, almost has you moaning into your mouth; you force yourself to detach yourself. Good things came to those who waited and for him? You didn’t mind the wait.

 

“Tomorrow night, then.”

 

Your heart swells as you watch him return to the car, enamored in the way he hesitates, eyes studying you intently as if committing your very look to memory before slipping back into car and disappearing into the night. Cold wind bites into your cheeks and arms as you remain standing on your stoop, entire body alight with joy as you soak in how wonderful your night just was.

 

And if that wasn’t enough, you get to do it all again tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/7! this was super fun to write and i hope you all enjoy it as much as i do!


	3. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy belated Valentine’s Day! rated m for mature 😌

“ _ We were making love by Wednesday” _

_ *** _

Never in a million years did you expect to be so enamored by another person before. Relationships had never been one of your strong suits; you went too far too fast, you didn’t go far enough for your partners. Sometimes, you truly thought that you were better off on your own, but Brian? Brian was a calm you were unaware you desired. Where you felt like you floundered with potential partners, a natural ease came when you were around Brian. He was everything you could want; a solid head on his shoulders, attention to detail, and  _ God _ was he handsome. He notes the way you steal glances, just observing him whenever you could, and he always rewards you with a kiss. 

 

Kissing a rockstar is something you could certainly get used to.

 

Another blissful day melts into blissful night; you couldn’t get enough of being around Brian. The way he talked so sincerely about his music, his passion for planets and the stars; you could listen to him talk for hours on end and not grow tired, though he swears you must after one particular stint. You aren’t quite sure that him reciting the alphabet would be one of the highlights of your life without sounding like a complete freak, so you settle on ensuring him that you aren’t bored of his conversation.

 

He’s shown you another marvelous evening and you’re twice as desperate to cling to him as long as you can. His lips are hot against your skin during the ride home, kisses placed with such precision and intensity that you can’t help the small sounds of pleasure that pour from your mouth, or the wetness that’s starting to collect between your thighs. This vehicle wasn’t a limo; there was no partition that separate you both from the driver ( by the stagnant look on his face, however, this doesn’t seem like anything he’s not used to ) and you were trying to be as respectful as you could manage, but when lips give way to the gentle press of tongue against your neck, sweetly suckling at the spot beneath your ear, what’s left of your modesty rockets out of the window.

 

You stumble awkwardly into his lap, thighs spreading comfortably so you could settle down against him, knees hugging delicate hips. You’re desperate to feel his lips on yours, which set undecided, but you’re particularly satisfied with the intensity of suction on your neck. He was  _ marking  _ you and the thought of trying to conceal an obnoxious hickey before work tomorrow has you pitching your hips into his; his stifled moan is all the motivation you need to repeat the action again, earning an equally stifled, borderline frustrated noise from the guitarist. Your legs spread further, the dark denim of his jeans biting into your skin as you search for any sort of friction you can get. The tell tale struggle of a semi beneath you is all the leverage you need and you manage to angle yourself in such a manner that each roll of your hips sends much needed pressure to your clit. You work yourself over like this for a moment; his mouth has left your neck and though your eyes have screwed themselves shut, you can feel his stare, and you  _ definitely  _ feel his cock hardening against your panties. His palms are warm and heavy against your thighs, calloused fingertips burning against the sensitive flesh as they disappear beneath your skirt. You want his hands everywhere; on you, in you. Your growing desire for him was almost too much for your brain to process — and if this car didn’t hurry up and take you home, you’d have him right in the backseat.

 

Maybe there is a god. As soon as you have half a mind to ride him senseless in the backseat of this car, it lurches to a stop. How clumsy you are in climbing off of his lap and out of the car would be embarrassing if the two of you weren’t so desperate for one another. You deserve a medal for making a fool of yourself in trying to unlock your front door, but you partially attest your clumsiness to those devilish hands trailing the sides of your body. Your home is dark and you’re stumbling over shoes you’ve left in the doorway, but you hardly need a light to get him to your bedroom. 

 

The glow of the fluorescence light from the neighbor’s garden casts grey shadows into your room, just enough for you to barely make his perfect. Now that you both were here and this was  _ actually _ going to happen, you feel a sudden anxiety grip your chest. Brian must feel it radiate off you because his demeanor softens, touch gentle as his lips skirt your shoulder.

 

“If you’re uncomfortable, we don’t have to. I can go home if that’s what you’re wanting.”

 

If arousal wasn’t fogging your mind, you know you could have given him a sensible answer. Instead, your palm gently presses against his erection, flattening and sliding over it’s length which draws a quiet, appreciative moan from Brian.

 

“What I’m  _ wanting  _ is for you to put cock in my mouth, and then? I want you to put me on my back and fuck me.” A simple enough demand that didn’t need to be told twice.

***

Sex has always been a bit of an odd thing for you; you hope you don’t look as anxious as feel. You haven’t done this in a  _ while _ and you’re so eager to please him, but you don’t want to end up looking like a fool. Your fingers work hastily, freeing him of his trousers and his briefs. Apprehension builds again and you try and meet his gaze in the darkness to find it, though shrouded in desire, extremely supportive. Your fingers circle around him and tentatively, your lips close around the tip. His moan is low, a broken exhale as you envelope him with your mouth. You find yourself in no rush, head bobbing slowly as your wrist twists slowly, working what, currently, wasn’t in your mouth and the moan that leaves him this time is louder, more confident. You’re  _ desperate _ to work every single moan out of this man before the night was over. The tip of his cock stings as it presses into the top of your throat; you muscle past the urge to gag as you hold him in your mouth for a moment before drawing away, hand twisting and pumping before you take him back in again. Hands that once grazed the side of your face have now interlocked behind your head; you know  _ exactly  _ what he was doing. You relax your tongue and throat the best you can as he slowly thrusts into your mouth, each little roll of his hips resulting in a different whine or moan. How wet you currently are is an offense all in it’s own and as much as you’re enjoying having him fuck your mouth, you find yourself slowly rubbing your severely neglected clit, seeking that delightful friction you had in the car. Relief is found when hands move from your head to arms to pull you to your feet, mouth heavy on yours when you’re completely on your feet again.

 

“Get undressed for me, love, and lie down right there.”

 

Your thighs clench at the words spoken to you between kisses; you’re undressing at an alarming rate - it’s truly a miracle that you haven’t yourself yet. The trail of his eyes over your body in various stages of nudity sends heat through your body, lingering and pulsing in your core. You crawl into the familiar groove in your bed, the groove you put there because you refuse to sleep in a different spot, or get a new mattress, and tentatively spread your legs. ( You aren’t sure why you’re nervous at this point; his dick  _ was  _ just in your mouth. )

 

Familiar curls settling between your legs sends a jolt of electricity through your body, toes curling as you resist the urge to sandwich his head with your thighs. His hazel eyes search for yours, a silent request for approval before he continues. Even now, his mouth mere inches from your sex, his chivalry squeezes your heart in warm delight. Was politeness before sex a valid enough reason to fall in love with a man? Your thoughts dissipate when his tongue licks a wide strip up your slit, stopping to circle your clit thrice before repeating the action. Your fingers knit into dense curls, needing to anchor yourself for fear of floating off and never returning. Hands gently spread you, tongue roaming every inch you; your praise is clear when his tongue flutters around your hole, though you’re desperate for something larger to fill you. Authentic shock crosses your face when his mouth travels lower; you wouldn’t  _ ever  _ pegged him as the type, but as the tip of his tongue teasingly swipes and licks it’s way along, questioningly pressing against that ring of muscle. ( And questioning your sanity and proposing the notion that, maybe, you’ve been having the wrong kind of sex. ) The press of his tongue into new territory, while odd, has you moaning giddily.

 

“Oh? Do you like that?”

 

You choke out a small yes before he repeats himself, the wet sound of his tongue lapping against you making you roll your hips against his mouth. One hand tightens in the forest of curls on his head, tugging and twisting which elicits rumbling vibration against your core. Now desperate for more, you find yourself writhing in your spot, hushed cries of needs filling the darkness around you. The return of his mouth to yours, heavy with the taste of you; that was something you weren’t exactly used to, but you moan happily into his mouth, legs hugging his waist.

 

“Brian, I—”

 

Your heart feels like it’s stuck in your throat; you hands trail the exposed skin of his shoulders. You’re not emotional, or scared. You aren’t exactly sure what you’re feeling; you opt to bring him down for another kiss instead of trying to fumble over your words. Your legs spread when his cock slowly begins to press into you, slowly filling and stretching you out. Deep hazel eyes peer into yours, staggered breathing filling the silence. The connection is unmistaken; you’ve never felt so close to someone before. You both take a moment to adjust before he slowly starts to move his hips forward. Your body molds to his, nails digging crescents into the back of his shoulders. Each thrust draws a low moan from the depths of your throat, spilling over your tongue before melting to nothingless. This was  _ happening _ , it was real; he was here, you two were together, sharing the most intimate of bonds. You could hardly get enough. Sweat beads on the guitarist’s forehead, flyaway curls glued to his face as he props himself up on his hands; the change in position, and pace, tighten the coil in your stomach. You normally weren’t such a quick finish, but your history of sexual partners has left much to be desired in terms of completetion; Brian was a needed and appreciated change.

 

Your fingers quickly work your clit, sliding back and forth as your orgasm builds. The cry of his name is shameless; you body arches off the bed thrusts slow, only slightly, as you pulse deliciously around his cock. Overstimulation has your body twitching, each thrust sending little jolts of electricity through your body; you don’t even have to look at Brian to notice the smugness on his face, and the deliberate way his hips roll into yours, cock griding slowly against your clit has you squirming where you lay. You were going to come, twice, for the first time in ages. How  _ rewarding.  _ Your soft moans mingle with his as his mouth cloaks yours, an arm hoooking beneath your right knee and bringing it, almost, to your ear; you weren’t going to last long this way and from the hushed whines falling from his mouth to yours, neither was he. Both your legs wrap around his frame, ankles locking together to, essentially, lock him in place. You goad him on between broken moans, urging him to release considering how close you were to your second one. Oh, completions was as glorious as beginning; your arms lock around his shoulders, fingers threading through sweat damped curls as breathless moans tickle the shell of your ear as you both ride out the pleasure.

 

“Good girl.”

 

You aren’t sure what merited the statement, but it has you moaning happily, hands cradling his face as you steer him into another kiss. You wouldn’t mind staying like that, blissfully tangled in each other’s arms. You know he’ll have to leave you soon, but for now, you just want to bask in the afterglow and kiss this glorious man in your arms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a shorter one, but here it is! thanks for reading. kudos and comments keep m writing

The blare of your alarm clock drags you from a deep slumber, head throbbing slightly as go to click the alarm off. Seven am again, which meant it was time to begin your usual routine, and you’re about to when the smell of coffee distracts you - and then you remember. _You slept with Brian May last night_. You wrap your favorite fuzzy blanket around yourself, tiptoeing to the kitchen to find the guitarist sitting at your table, one mug in his hand and the other sat across from him. His eyes lift when he notices you; his smile is wide, genuine and you can’t help the way your heart flips in your chest.

 

“Hope you don’t mind me making myself comfortable.”

 

“Honestly, I’m kind of surprised you didn’t leave after sex last night.”

 

You move to stand between his legs, cradling the mug of coffee in one hand and gently playing with his hair in the other.

 

“What kind of man do you take me for? I would hope, by now, that my intentions were clear.” Words have you tilting your head slightly, nails gently scratching his scalp as you give a thoughtful shrug. _Did_ you know? Did _he_ even know? You had only met a few days ago, and you’d be damned if you let yourself grow attached to a man you probably couldn’t even keep, but the idea of falling does seem nice.

 

You put your mug on the table and scoot into his lap, one arm sliding around his shoulders and the other securing the blanket around your naked frame. The press of lips to the exposed strip of skin beneath your collarbones draws a sigh of satisfaction from your chest, but doesn’t serve as enough of a distraction; you clearly see his hand trying to open the blanket wrapped around you.

 

“Brian, I have to be out of here in forty minutes.”

 

“You can be a little late.”

 

You try to protest, pinching your thighs together to stop wandering fingers, only for those same wandering fingers to press your legs apart, grazing your clit. You moan wantonly, fingers curling around the guitarist’s wrists in an attempt to lock him in place, hips rolling in frustration. Your eyes fall to the analog clock just behind you two, noting how time continues ticking away. Maybe you _could_ be a little late; it wasn’t your morning to open the store anyways, but you know exactly how your boss could be when you weren’t on time. To hell with the rules today.

 

You turn yourself, legs now on either side of his waist, and drop open the blanket tucked beneath your arms - you’re only slightly smug at the appreciative hum this action earns you. You make yourself busy with his trousers, freeing his half erect cock, giving a few twists before lifting yourself just enough to slowly slide down onto him.

Quiet moans fill the kitchen; you both still for a moment just to adjust and properly take each other in. Your mind is _reeling_ . You’re really having sex with him _again;_ he has genuine interest in you outside of sex, which isn’t something a lot of guys have done. He really liked you, and you _really_ liked him. In no particular rush, you grind your hips lazily against his, particularly enjoying the way your clit scraped the base of his cock when your hips shift backward. Work worn fingertips find the grove of your spine, pressing you flush against his chest; his mouth is on yours, warm and demanding all of you. You tongue lazily presses to his, twining around his. Perhaps the deep need for him in every missing part of your soul lay right here, in intimacy. The gentle way his hands hugged your body to his own, soft mewls of pleasure only loud enough for your own ears; _this_ is what you’ve been missing. You didn’t always need some quick fuck, a simple interaction that barely left you satisfied.

 

Was it weird to feel like you were in love? Or did you just love the security he could bring you.

 

Your hips work dutifully against his, slowing once when his lift to thrust upward, pressing deliciously into your spot, and slowing again as orgasm spills; your knees hug his hips gently, hips rocking into his before slowly coming to a stop. Hands cradle the guitarist’s head to your head, eyes falling to the clock yet again.

 

You’d be late, _exceptionally_ late, but it was certainly worth it.

 

 

***

“Brian, you—”

 

“I can’t what? Walk my girl to her job? What’s the crime in that?”

 

 _My girl._ What? Was he serious? Your thumb grazes his knuckles as you walk, eyes trying to avoid the gases that follow you as you walk. If there was an opposite of a walk of shame, this was it. If he was anyone else, no one would bat an eye, and it’s almost if as he’s … _flaunting_ you - using his superstardom to bring attention to you. You had assured him after your shower ( you swore it would just be a shower, but it was anything but ) that you could just take yourself, that you’d catch up with him later that night, or even tomorrow, but he’s persistent.

 

The shop is relatively empty when you arrive, a couple of high school kids lingering who almost pass out when they realize who’s on your arm. Jainey, the only other employee you swear works at the ship at well, immediately is eyeing you and Brian, disbelief clear on her face. You sigh and free your hand, turning to bid him a farewell when arms slide around your waist, almost lifting you off the ground in a kiss. Your face burns with heart as every eye in the room turns to observe the two of you. You sigh happily against his mouth, nose gently bumping his as you return to his natural height.

 

“I’ll see you around; I should let the guys know I’m still kicking.”

 

You’re frozen in your spot as you watch Brian leave, heart fluttering in your chest as you slowly make your way to the front desk, tucking your belongs away as Janiney slides toward you, excitement clear in the way she squeals.

 

“Tell. Me. _Everything!_ ”


End file.
